


Under Pressure

by Impressioniste



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impressioniste/pseuds/Impressioniste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke feels Anders slipping away, and is determined to bring him back around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Pressure

**Author's Note:**

> This is intended to take place after the events 'Legacy', sometime after the events of Act 2, but before the main events of Act 3. It would probably fit into that same timeline, Legacy notwithstanding, but that's what I had in mind when I wrote it.

“Hey.” Hawke’s voice carried through the library a touch more gracefully than the man himself, who plodded wearily along behind it until he reached the desk, and Anders’ side.

Anders did not look up, so completely absorbed in the text of the book he was reading that Hawke’s voice barely registered with him at all. Hawke frowned silently, moving past Anders and the desk, and settling himself down in the large, comfortable armchair by the fireplace.

Anders had been unusually quiet lately, spending most of his time in his Darktown clinic or Hawke’s library when he wasn’t restlessly pacing the hallways. Hawke had taken notice, unsure of how to actually approach the subject; He was accustomed to Anders being affectionate and attentive even when depressed or distracted, but for the last few days—maybe even weeks—he had just seemed… preoccupied. Not all there. He tried to tell himself it was just a shift in his usual pattern of mood swings, but still, it unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

Anders had been increasingly absorbed in Chantry texts as of late, including the book he was currently reading, it seemed; Hawke had caught a quick glimpse of the text from over his shoulder before he’d walked away, and recognized it as something-or-other by Brother Genitivi.

Hawke stared into the fireplace for a little while, lost in thought. He had been hoping to intercept Anders before he had the chance to hermit himself away in the library for the evening, but was called on an engagement with some of Hightown’s nobles, and even though he left long before the end, he had been stuck there socializing for far longer than intended. At least there had been good wine to dull the boredom and banality of the evening, but it did little to help the fact that by the time he arrived home, Anders was already lost inside a book.

He propped his legs up on a footstool and sighed heavily, loosening the collar of his fancy dress shirt. Even though checking in on Anders was first on his list of things to do upon arriving home, he had taken a moment to divest himself of his stuffy jacket and vest. Hawke refused to believe that people normally willingly traipsed about in clothing that tight and uncomfortable, and there was no one to turn up their nose at him for not wearing full dress in the privacy of his own home.

“Oh,” Hawke heard suddenly, from across the room. Anders had finally looked up and spied Hawke sitting there, undoing the laces at his throat. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Hawke forced a soft, wry smile. “You don’t say.”

“I’m sorry.” Anders closed the book and folded his hands lightly over it.

“Don’t worry about it.” Hawke dismissed the apology, and an awkward silence settled between them. He listened to the sounds of the fire crackling for a few moments, then turned back to Anders, who was looking at the floor. “What’s on your mind?” he prompted, gently.

Anders looked up again and smiled, but his lips were pressed together a little too tightly, and his expression was tenuous, uncertain.

“It’s nothing,” he replied, a little too forcefully, a little too quick. He pushed himself back from the desk and stared down its polished surface, tracing his fingertips along the lines and swirls in the cut of the wood.

“All right,” Hawke said, his tone skeptical, though he did not push the subject. He sighed quietly to himself and turned his attention back to the fireplace until he heard the soft, muffled thumping of Anders’ booted feet grow close and loud and finally come to a stop beside him. He looked up again just as Anders leaned down from above and pressed a warm, gentle kiss to his mouth.

Hawke reached up to grip the front of Anders’ coat in both his hands, tugging him closer, and Anders grabbed the back of the chair with one hand to steady himself, to keep himself from tumbling completely headfirst into Hawke’s lap. His free hand cupped the side of Hawke’s face tenderly, his fingers soft despite the calluses, his touch cool, delicate, and soothing whether he was actually using healing magic or not.

Hawke grunted softly into the kiss, all too happy to reciprocate with warm, affectionate sweeps of his tongue and the crushing pressure of his fingers as they dug into Anders’ shoulders, sliding through the feathers sewn into the fabric of his coat. Anders’ tongue was hot and heavy and thick in his mouth, and Hawke pulled back for breath after what seemed like an eternity, hissing as Anders’ teeth grazed his bottom lip, parting reluctantly. Hawke tried to look at him, but Anders was still averting his eyes, his gaze darting nervously around the room before he tilted his forehead down to bump against Hawke’s.

“What was that for?” Hawke smiled indulgently, his brow quirking upward as he rubbed the rough fabric of Anders’ coat between his thumb and forefinger.

“You’ve been out rubbing elbows with the nobility all night,” Anders replied, with a grin that twisted the corner of his mouth but never reached his eyes. “I just thought I’d get a taste for myself.”

“ _Real_ nobility’s a bit more stale. Like old, musty cheese,” Hawke grinned, wrapping his arms around Anders’ waist and pulling him down into his lap.

Anders offered only token resistance and a cursory sigh as he settled into the space between Hawke and the chair, toying with the laces on Hawke’s shirt. “I guess I’m not missing much, then.”

“Hardly,” Hawke replied, and then fell silent for a moment, trying to find the right words to fit the unsettling feelings welling up inside of him. Anders’ head was heavy and warm against his shoulder, a few stray locks of hair splayed out against the collar of Hawke’s dress shirt, looking brighter and more golden than usual against the clean white fabric. Still groping silently for words, Hawke reached over and gently tucked the strands back behind Anders’ ear.

“I miss you,” he murmured quietly, the tips of his fingers lingering on Anders’ skin, brushing against his cheek and jaw before pulling his hand away, letting it fall back at his side.

“I’m right here,” Anders said, laying his hand on top of Hawke’s. He was trying to be supportive, genuine, reassuring—but Hawke could hear the tightness in his voice.

“You’ve been away a lot, lately,” Hawke prodded, still dancing around the words he really wanted to say.

“My patients—” Anders quickly began, pushing back against the chair to sit himself up.

“That’s not what I meant,” Hawke interrupted, refusing to give Anders the opportunity for an excuse or subject change. “I meant up here,” Hawke rapped his knuckles gently against Anders’ forehead.

” _You_. Not your body,” he continued, sucking in a deep, steadying breath before continuing to navigate through the tangled mess of his thoughts. “Sometimes I put my arms around you and it feels like you’re not there.”

Anders froze, completely at a loss for what to say. Hawke was right, he could not rightfully deny that, but it was something he didn’t want to think about, let alone discuss.

“I’m… sorry,” he said, fighting to swallow against the growing lump in his throat.

It was an inadequate reply, and Anders knew it, but it seemed a better alternative to saying nothing, to letting the silence that was growing between them continue to expand until it mercilessly swallowed them both.

“Stop that.” Hawke’s voice was gentle, but firm. “You’ve got plenty of things to be sorry for. Leaving your dirty clothes in my bed. Breaking my favorite chair while trying to hang curtains to keep imaginary templars out. Traumatizing Bodahn and the dog by trying to play that lute when you bloody well know you can’t. But not this.”

Anders managed a bleak, watery smile and a nervous, mirthless laugh, but he couldn’t look directly at Hawke. Instead, he stared down at his lap, picking at a loose thread on his coat. Hawke shifted, turning his body toward Anders.

“After my mother… died,” he began, nearly stumbling over the words, words that immediately brought back memories of an event that still felt almost too raw and painful to talk about. “I felt like I’d lost everything. But you were there for me.”

“No one should have to go through something like that alone,” Anders replied, his voice low and rough.

“Exactly,” Hawke said, and Anders felt his face begin to flush. “And I know I wasn’t myself for a long time after that. But… you stuck with me.”

“Of course I did.” Anders finally looked up, his brow tightly knit, lips pressed tightly together. “I love you.”

Hawke’s face softened, the worry lines at his brow relaxing and smoothing themselves out as he leaned in toward Anders and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips. Anders remained still, allowing himself to be kissed without protest even though his first instinct was to shy away, but his lips were warm and pliant, and he uttered a small, soft sigh of regret when Hawke pulled away.

“I know you do,” Hawke replied at last, fondly stroking the side of Anders’ jaw, his words all spilling out in a single, nervous rush. “That’s why I’m telling you this. That this thing between us, this… _partnership_ , it doesn’t only go one way.”

He paused for a moment and tried to smile, tried to remember to breathe, tried to remember to keep looking at Anders and not to let him look away, tried to clear the thick, prickly heat out of the back of his throat so that he could finish what he wanted to say before anxiety and fear got the better of him.

“And I know all the love in the world can’t fix everything, but...” Hawke said, his voice rough and low, to keep it from cracking. “I’m here for you, too. Whatever you need.”

Anders didn’t respond, _couldn’t_ respond, not to _that_ —at least not with words. Instead of grappling for descriptions and expressions he knew would be inadequate anyway, Anders grabbed Hawke’s face in both of his hands and pulled him in close for a hot, hard kiss.

Hawke was caught unawares, grunting in surprise as he found himself pulled forward. Anders slid his hands back into Hawke’s thick, dark hair and held him fast, pressing kiss after kiss to his warm, wet mouth in between rough, heavy, panting gasps for breath.

Anders shifted his weight against the chair as their legs tangled together, and Hawke groaned softly, his arms circling around Anders’ waist in a tight embrace. Anders returned the gesture, wrapping his arms around Hawke’s broad shoulders, pressing his palms against the thin white fabric of his dress shirt, feeling the warmth of his body bleed through.

Anders trailed a line of fervent kisses down the length of Hawke’s neck—the press of soft lips, sharp teeth, slick tongue and the stream of salty tears spilling unbidden down his cheeks leaving behind a trail of hot, wet, gently bruised flesh in their wake before he sighed, pressing his face against Hawke’s shoulder. He clung to him tightly, desperately, with Hawke’s big, broad palm rubbing small, soothing circles into his back as Anders shivered and shuddered, finally allowing himself to let go of the guilt and pain and loneliness and fear that he had been holding back. His shoulders heaved spasmodically with huge, silent sobs, soaking Hawke’s shirt and leaving a cluster of warm, wet patches behind as his heart emptied itself bit by bit in a slow and steady outpouring of bitter, anguished tears.


End file.
